


The Most Alone

by GiseeRouchon



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:24:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiseeRouchon/pseuds/GiseeRouchon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little Bodie vignette....</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Alone

To quote Ibsen, " _The strongest men are the most alone._ "

 

When Bodie felt nervous or intimidated he unwittingly poshed-up his native Birkenhead accent. Sometimes he didn’t even realise he was doing it, but Doyle _always_ noticed and needled him mercilessly about it.

It was alright for Ray- he just didn’t care what _anyone_ thought- which Bodie supposed was how he could be so impressively and bloody rude so often. He didn’t seem to care _what_ people thought of him…

Bodie himself could be pretty thick-skinned...  You _had_ to be in this job or you’d never survive. The lowlifes openly hated you, the police surreptitiously hated you, MI5 covertly hated you, and if the public knew half of what went on behind their backs _they’d_ have abhorred you too.

His background was not that dissimilar to Doyle’s. Both came from Irish stock somewhere along the line, both resolutely working class, both had hinted at things in their past they’d rather not talk about, and both had been in and out of trouble throughout their youth; Doyle until he joined the police force (-to redeem himself, he’d joked-) and Bodie until he’d joined the regular army and started fighting for Queen and Country instead of just cold, hard cash…

Bodie just _knew_ he had the looks, the charm, and certainly the talent to go far. He wasn’t averse to blowing his own trumpet- well, _somebody_ had to, and until someone made him a fan-club he’d just have to be his own- but he was also acutely aware that he just didn’t have the pedigree to mix in the kind of circles that Cowley associated with so effortlessly, and this piqued him.

Doyle was a guttersnipe through and through- and seemingly proud of it. Bodie had no difficulty at all in picturing him as a Victorian street-urchin. Quite possibly pickpocketing some unsuspecting Cowley-alike, almond eyes twinkling, and with a cheeky chip-toothed grin plastered all over his face.

Bodie couldn’t help but crack a goofy grin of his own at the sheer randomness of that vision…. but still, he just _knew_ that the high life and he would get along exceptionally well- could practically _smell_ the expensive cologne, visualise the fine tailoring, top quality booze, fast cars and the stunning birds just _queuing_ up for his attentions.

Basically, he wanted to be James Bond. Well why not? He was easily as handsome and charming as Fleming’s cold-fish creation, and was sure he had all the requisite skills for the job. Why should Bond get all the fun? He’d read the books and to be honest couldn’t make out what the ladies saw in him. At least _he_ had a decent sense of humour and didn’t chain smoke, right?

Bodie was a sucker for a pretty face… and a nice, pert arse always hit the spot too, because -despite his quite uncanny ability to guess a woman’s chest size to the nearest cm with over 96% accuracy, and the reputation he tried so hard to uphold -he wasn’t _particularly_ a boob man. It was the done thing to like ‘em well stacked, wasn’t it? It was just a crying shame that the prettiest face, and indeed the nicest arse he could call to mind at the present moment belonged to his aforementioned snotty gobshite of a partner, Doyle…

But hey, image was everything, right? And his little trick was a great icebreaker among the lads. A shame the ladies never appreciated his skill more, he’d always thought. Perhaps he should have worked in lingerie? Would have been a damn sight safer anyway... Or perhaps he should have been a tailor; Saville Row, no less… (Bodie had a deep and abiding appreciation for the line of a good suit) or a hairdresser, perhaps? Though he wouldn’t have admitted it, Bodie often cut his own hair, and made a bloody good job of it he thought. His crowning glory!

He could have owned a whole string of salons by now if he’d put his mind to it, instead of heading down this route of chaos and destruction. A nice _normal_ job. Certainly less killing involved (-unless you happened to be Sweeney Todd, that is-) and just as much satisfaction at a job well done, lots of pretty lasses to flirt with, and none of this bloody secrecy that was becoming so very tiresome.

Bodie was beginning to feel cut off from everyday folk in a way he had never suspected he was capable of. Every time he so much as brought a paper in his local newsagents he had to think hard and carefully about everything he said. Small talk was a minefield. “Be on your guard”, said Cowley. “Don’t let anyone get to know your habits,” said Cowley. “Don’t let anyone, ANYONE, mind- suspect your real job. Keep it vague and boring."

Don’t let anyone close.

Don’t let your guard slip.

 _No-one_ can understand how you live your life, the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen- they’d despise you, run you out of town- you’re as bad as any serial killer they could think of, you’re nothing more than a feral beast to them…

Everything else is an act.

They only like you because they don’t _know_ you, don’t know anything _at all_ about you, handsome face and charming manner aside.

Only your fellow agents have any idea what your life is like, and they have their own demons to deal with… when they’re not busy getting killed, that is.

In the army, and before that, as a mercenary, Bodie had done his best to avoid letting anyone get too close to him. Physically they did of course; he had had his share of lovers, then and now. But in the morning, in the harsh light of day, he wanted his own space again.

Caring made you slow and it made you vulnerable. It was a weakness and Bodie didn’t _do_ weak.

He had had friends too, in the army especially- close friends that he thought of as _brothers_ , people he’d trusted his own life to, and people he’d saved… Sooner or later though, they just kept on bloody getting killed, until he couldn’t find it in himself to buddy up with anyone anymore… Not for a long, long time.

Bodie had never thought about things like this before. He was a man of action, and -unlike Ray with his unexpected dreamy side- he wasn’t given to self-analysis, or angst. Not in the least…

It suddenly occurred to him that he was lonely. Lonely in a way he’d never been before- even in his time in Africa- far from Western civilisation or a decent cuppa…

Maybe it was his age? He had kind of assumed he’d be dead by now- and his current role in CI5 had done nothing to convince him he’d make old bones. He wasn’t being maudlin about it- it’s just that men in his line of work had the greatest difficulty obtaining life insurance, or would have done, had he been able to fill in any of the paperwork without breaching nearly all the terms of his contract. If God was a bookie, he’d have been the rank outsider. How could he go on living this half-life? Protecting a society he could never be a part of?

What were the perks of the job…? Come on, _think_ man… what made you sign up? Money? Well, it was better than the last job but hardly worth dying for. Fame? Ha! What a joke! Even my next-door neighbours don’t have a clue who I am. (Though I reckon the old dear over the way is pretty keen to find out…)

Queen and country? Well, I _like_ the country well enough, but there again, I liked Africa while I was there- until it all turned bad, anyway… and it took me a good long while to miss Old Blighty even a little bit….and, well, I’m not saying I’m not a loyal subject, but it all feels a little distant. ‘ _Queen and Country_.'

It’s different for Cowley, he’s probably playing bridge with ‘er at weekends!

I know why I joined. _Boredom_. Nothing more, nothing less.

Been there, done that, got the sodding postcard. There’s not a lot I haven’t done… _Now_.

Why do I stay? Well _that’s_ a question. They say you can never _truly_ leave the service, but I’d have found a way- _I would_ -If I wanted to…

To be honest, there’s only one reason I stay, and it’s the same reason I still get through each day, usually with a grin and a joke or three, a bit of banter with the lads at break, a swift pint on the corner, and this creeping loneliness -for now- at bay.

 _Ray_.

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> My second little Pros ficlet/ vignette from 23/10/13... again, still rough and scrappy and plotless- scrawled on the Blackberry in the dead of night as is my wont. I just got thinking about the loneliness of ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶l̶o̶n̶g̶-̶d̶i̶s̶t̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ ̶r̶u̶n̶n̶e̶r̶ the CI5 agent's lifestyle, and how it was bound to drive you towards your fellow agents in a way that few other jobs would do. Again, I'm a reader, not a writer and so constructive criticism is always welcome...


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